Eva Leigh - Dare to Love a Duke

But clearly none of that mattered to Maeve, who had her head on Lord Stacey’s shoulder.

Maeve and Lord Stacey had met at a regatta in May and had been nigh inseparable ever since. It was merely Lord Stacey’s relative youth—only twenty years old—that prevented him from asking for Maeve’s hand. The Duke of Brookhurst had made it clear that only when his heir had reached the mature age of twenty-one could he propose.

But Lord Stacey’s birthday was in a month, within Maeve’s period of full mourning. Fielding an offer of marriage during mourning was uncouth. And so Maeve and her beloved would have to wait to even begin their official courtship.

A fact which was made clear by the way she and Lord Stacey had plastered themselves together today. They stood side by side, hands clasped, as though unable to permit even the smallest distance between themselves.

“Thank you so much, Your Grace, for permitting this,” Lord Stacey said with all the fervency of youth. “The owners of this farm have been generously compensated for providing the venue as well as their discretion.”

Tom made himself look as formidable as possible. “Don’t betray my trust by taking undue advantage.”

“Tommy!” Maeve exclaimed, sounding mortified.

Yet her embarrassment meant less to him than safeguarding her reputation. Perhaps it was hypocrisy to protect her virtue when Tom himself enjoyed the standing as one of the ton ’s profligates, but that was the double standard that guided most of Society. He might not support that double standard, but he wouldn’t gamble his only sister’s happiness on his own opinion.

“I won’t, Your Grace.” Lord Stacey’s gaze was earnest.

In all of Tom’s dissipated carousing, not once had he crossed paths with the lad, leading him to believe that Lord Stacey truly was an upstanding—possibly virginal—young man.

“How fares your father?” Tom asked.

“He’s quite fixated on passing an upcoming bill,” Lord Stacey said. “Something to do with increasing the punishment of transients.” The lad’s eyes grew somber. “The passing of the late duke came as a blow to him.”

“That, I don’t doubt.” In addition to sharing a friendship of over three decades, the Duke of Brookhurst and Tom’s father had been longtime confederates in the political scene. Together, they had formed one of the most dominant conservative syndicates in Parliament.

When Maeve and Lord Stacey had shown a marked preference for each other, Tom had witnessed the Duke of Brookhurst and the late duke at White’s, toasting the continuation of their alliance and the marriage of the two bastions of England’s utmost traditional, upstanding families. It would be a union that pleased everyone.

“He, ah, mentioned something this morning,” Lord Stacey said, his face reddening. “About you. About . . . needing your support in Parliament. He’s relying on it. For, ahem, our sake.” He glanced down at Maeve, before looking back at Tom. “Might I…speak with you in private for a moment, Your Grace?”

Tom frowned. “As you wish.”

Maeve made a sound of exasperation but didn’t stop Tom or Lord Stacey when they moved a small distance from her.

Tom gazed at the young man in a silent prompt to speak.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Lord Stacey said, a touch of stammer in his voice. “My condolences on your loss. But I have to tell you that I overheard my parents speaking just this morning. My father . . . he hasn’t fully decided whether or not he supports my marrying Maeve.”

Only when Lord Stacey backed up a step did Tom realize that he scowled fiercely. “Why the deuces not?”

“Because you were a bit wild. That’s what he said to my mother. He didn’t know if he could trust you to uphold the line’s reputation—and he wants your vote.”

“My vote,” Tom ground out.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Lord Stacey ducked his head. “He said to Mama that if you didn’t support him in Parliament . . .” The young man coughed. “The marriage wouldn’t happen.”

Tom stared at Lord Stacey. “What?” he said in disbelief.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace. That’s what he said. And I would never impose myself on you in any way, only . . .”

“Think of Maeve.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Tom gave a clipped nod. It was in the papers, and now this. Expectations. Pressures. And this threat.

“Hugh,” Maeve called. “Stop making my brother scowl.”

Her suitor coughed. “Yes. Right. Sorry.”

With Lord Stacey following, Tom walked back to Maeve. His head rang. Lord Stacey’s words, and the column in the Times cemented a reality he did not want to face. Did not but had to.

To preserve unity between his family and the Duke of Brookhurst’s, Tom had to follow the path his father had walked. It was a path that stuck to England’s most revered traditions and ancient institutions. Many a time Tom and his father had argued over the late duke’s firm stance against progressive policies. But his father had remained obdurate.

As the new duke, Tom could choose to abandon his father’s staunch beliefs. But that meant severing ties with alliances that went back to the time of the Restoration, including the tie between the Northfield and Brookhurst dukedoms.

It was clear in Lord Stacey’s awkward confession the Duke of Brookhurst would forbid his son from marrying Maeve if Tom did not fall into line. The duke would surely cut off Lord Stacey’s allowance. The young man was a good lad, but Tom wasn’t certain he’d choose noble sentiment over realistic poverty.

“I’ll leave you two to your chaste rendezvous,” Tom said to Maeve and her suitor. “You have fifteen minutes before we must return home. Mind, you’ll keep yourselves to this front yard, and I shall keep you in my sights at all times.” He fixed Lord Stacey and his sister with a sharp look. “I make myself clear, aye?”

Maeve rolled her eyes, but Lord Stacey nodded, saying, “Yes, Your Grace. Of course.”

Unaccustomed to the role of chaperone, Tom strode off to walk the perimeter of the property. He kept his word and maintained eyes on the couple. Because, no matter how upstanding and honorable Lord Stacey might be, he was a young man, and most likely had a young man’s appetites and urges.

As Tom strolled along the fence line of the farm, the sky overhead heavy and gray, his thoughts churned in time with the movement of his body.

He’d hoped to reverse the regressive stance of the dukedom. He’d wanted to wield his power to help others—but the Duke of Brookhurst had a metaphorical gun to his head. Either play the part of the supportive Tory, or Maeve couldn’t marry the man she loved.

His own convictions—or the happiness of his sister.

Tom glanced at his sister and Lord Stacey as they sat on a stone bench in the front garden. Their heads were bent together, their hands intertwined. The air around them fairly vibrated with the intensity of their adoration. As Maeve’s shoulders began to shake with sobs, Lord Stacey ran his fingers down her cheek before embracing her. Comforting her.

Another hot stab of envy pierced Tom.

Since his father’s illness and passing, he’d consoled his mother and sister, holding them when they wept and listening as they poured out their grief. While he didn’t begrudge them their need for succor, there was no one to give him the same consolation. No one to comfort him, or hear his broken confession that while his father had been a strict and uncompromising parent, Tom had loved him. Loved him and missed him.

He faced all of this alone.

Not only that, he saw that he was now the face of the Northfield dukedom. As the Duke of Brookhurst had said, Tom’s conduct reflected on the Powell family. With the death of his father, he was supposed to become one of the pillars of English Society. The seventh Duke of Northfield. Not a title to be taken lightly. Nor were the responsibilities that came with that title easily shirked.